


and your hubris i shall cut down with a knife

by cymatile



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Burglary gone wrong, also iron's eye color is purely a headcanon - one that failbetter will pry from my cold dead hands, but listen i wrote this in one sit because i was getting the hornies for mr iron, probably innacurate depiction of someone choking to death in their own blood, so please bear with me yes?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymatile/pseuds/cymatile
Summary: A young thief with more bark than bite tries to steal from the Bazaar.Needless to say, it doesn't go well.
Kudos: 17





	and your hubris i shall cut down with a knife

Infiltrating the Bazaar should be impossible, but listen, this is the Neath - “impossibility” has a vague meaning here.

Step by silent step, you go deeper into the darkness, looking for a trophy worth this whole trouble. The ones that helped you come this far have all asked you what’s in it for you, of course; stealing from under the Masters’ noses is not a thing to take lightly, after all, and if you are so willing to take the dire risks, then surely it must be quite the prize, yes?

It turns out that no, you never had anything in mind to begin with. You are just young and _stupid_ and so, _so_ very eager to make a name for yourself.

(But nobody needs to know this, so a charming smile and some promising, tempting words is what it takes for people to help you. Because you _are_ good like this.)

You keep walking, quiet as cat, probing the darkness with the eyes of a skilled thief (of a _master_ thief, you think to yourself with a cocky grin). The Masters’ fortune is as vast as it is immesurable, for all you know - certainly they must have some fine treasures laying around all over the Bazaar, just waiting to be taken. It doesn’t really have to be something that precious-looking, you decide; whatever it is, it will amount a good sum after you sell it, simply because of where it was stolen from.

You are already wondering what you would be able to buy for yourself when you hear something strange. It’s only for half a second, so fast that normal people would take as their imagination, but you are a seasoned thief and so you know it was there - a whistle in the air, a hiss of sorts.

You quickly turn your head to see if there’s something behind you and blood suddenly floods your throat.

You blink, surprised, and slowly raise your hand to your throat, finding it neatly slashed. Your knees buckle beneath you and you fall to the ground, chocking on your own vital fluid. Your chest heaves, trying desperately to take in air but only receiving more and more blood instead. You stare upwards, confused more than anything. How... Who...-

You hear the soft whisper of floating robes near your head (and something heavier underneath, like metal links against each other) and a thin thing covered in fabric probes at the wound at your throat. You convulse and choke even more and oh, now you can feel yourself slipping away. Things start getting fainter and yet somehow your ears still pick up a sound... like something dragging on paper...?

The faint light of candle flame suddenly appears by your side and a gloved hand with far too many joints grabs your chin and tilts your head to the side with surprising gentleness. You find yourself staring at a piece of paper with big, smudgy handwriting. The candle’s light is dim and you’re dying and so the letters - written in your own blood - dance before your eyes but you still manage to read them.

“YOU REALLY SHOULDN’T BE HERE.”

With your last ounce of strenght, you raise your dying gaze and find a pair of unnatural glimming eyes staring back at you - silvery eyes, sharp as steel and twice as bitter.

Then it all fades to black and you die with the taste of iron at your tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> If Failbetter doesn't give me relevant Mr Iron content, then I make do with my own fancies ~


End file.
